It’s been a long time since I’ve posted something warm and fuzzy, and I think Mother’s Day is a perfect excuse to do so. I was blessed with terrific parents, and what better way to honour them than with a blog post?
Today, I write a tribute to my Mom, who taught me the meaning of strength and perseverance, even when you’re tired and you’re frustrated and you just don’t wanna.
Don’t worry, Dad: yours is coming in June.
“It hurts to be beautiful,” my mom would say as she pulled my unruly hair into a ponytail, “now hold still.”
I did not want to hold still, however. I wanted to read a book, or run around the yard, or sing to myself in a corner. Ultimately, I wanted to do anything but sit, unmoving and docile, while my hair was tugged and twisted and manipulated in ways I was sure must violate some kind of child abuse law.
“I don’t want to be beautiful!”
“Yes, you do,” Mom would mutter distractedly through the pins in her mouth.
“What’s the point? I don’t care what I look like.”
There it was: the argument that was difficult to win when dealing with a blind child who treated “girly” like a curse. I was usually okay with playing dress-up and so on, but when it came to the everyday agonies of making oneself presentable, it took me a lot longer than I’d like to accept that, even though my own eyes didn’t work, other people’s did—and what they thought mattered.
Even if I’d been an obliging child, raising me would not have been easy. Mom’s responsibilities extended far beyond wrestling me into some approximation of “well-groomed” after all. Raising a child with a disability meant both my parents were forced to recognize that sometimes life simply isn’t fair. Having a blind child, though challenging, was probably the least of Mom’s problems. Society has always gone out of its way to shame mothers, and Mom was not exempt. If anything, raising a disabled child actually made her more vulnerable to it. More than once, another mother has told her that, had I been their child, I’d have turned out better—more independent, perhaps, or more competent, etc. In these cases, Mom, who is a far nicer person than she has to be, has simply shrugged it off, reasoning that “if they knew what it was like, they wouldn’t be saying that.” Let’s just say I’m glad I won’t be having kids; I don’t think I could be half so tolerant.
Yes, having a disabled child means that several parents you meet, regardless of how ill-informed and inexpert they may be, will feel comfortable telling you all the ways in which you’re messing it up. Some are so confident that they’ll insist they could do it better, and as the parents who actually know how difficult it can be, mothers like mine are left to shake their heads and get on with it.
Then, there is the mama-bear instinct to channel or suppress, whatever the case may be. The world is a cruel place, and Mom had to come to terms with the fact that not everyone wanted to make that world easier for me. She had to learn that we live in a world where a teacher could tell her, to her face, that she should be grateful I was allowed to go to school at all. She had to listen to me cry while dealing with accessibility issues and unsympathetic educators, all the while knowing that this was the new normal. She was forced to stand by while a potential employer refused to hire me solely because I would be defenseless against armed intruders (yes, that is the excuse they used). She had to understand—and I imagine this is an ongoing process—that my life was going to be a little harder than it should be, and that she could not shield me. Instead, she’d have to let my independent spirit do the shielding, while offering support from the sidelines. There is a time to be your child’s fiery advocate, and a time to step back and let her figure it out. It’s a hard lesson to master.
There is so much we owe to our mothers, whether we are disabled or not. While all mothers have plenty of trials to face, I believe mothers of children with disabilities, illnesses, and other traits that make them seem abnormal to the rest of society have an especially heavy load to bear. Mom gets extra points for dealing with me; sadly, I can’t blame my difficult daughter status on blindness, as convenient as I’d find it.
So thanks, Mom, for shouldering all of these things while managing to treat me like a “normal” kid, and raising my sighted sister at the same time. Thank you for putting up with my grumbling long enough to make ponytails and take me clothes shopping and all the other unspeakable tortures about which I was so vocal. Most of all, thank you for keeping your head up when society wasn’t kind. Being a mother is tough when all the odds are with you, and you didn’t have that luxury.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
If you haven’t yet done so, give your mom a call and thank her for whatever special gifts she’s given you over the years. Moms like it when you call.